


Caught On Kiss Cam... Again

by dylanofuckme (theplaidchesters)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Kiss cam, M/M, Some Cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3140273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplaidchesters/pseuds/dylanofuckme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time, the stranger-but-definitely-gorgeous Derek kisses Stiles briefly and chastely. </p>
<p>The second time, Derek doesn't get caught on the Kiss Cam, but he kisses Stiles anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught On Kiss Cam... Again

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt: strangers who end up on the kiss cam at a sporting event

*

There’s a hot guy sitting right next to him, and the hotdogs aren’t completely disgusting, but those are pretty much all the positive things Stiles can think of right now.

He’s also there because of Scott, die-hard Lakers fan and best friend since they were five? Six years old? And it’s his birthday, too, so Stiles couldn’t have said no even if he wanted to.

He’s more of a lacrosse enthusiast, if you ask him.

Basketball is boring.

“Is this going to take a lot? I can only pretend I actually care about the game for so long.”

Scott doesn’t even acknowledge him; he’s got that stupid grin he only gets when he’s with Allison (and she’s not even here, my god), his eyes glued to the court and barely paying attention to the bag of popcorn he sneaked into the Staples Center. His team is winning, apparently: the whole place is cheering loudly and the bench players are vibrating from the excitement.

The hot guy next to him is talking-shouting something to his companion, a pretty brunette with long hair and gorgeous alabaster skin; they haven’t won a game in so long, the guy says, it’s pretty fucking surreal.

When Stiles side-glances at them, the girl is stroking the guy’s neck with such tenderness it makes Stiles want to puke his guts out, and what is worse, she is actually paying attention to the game.

He groans, letting his head fall back. _God, why did you make me gay and uninterested in basketball?_

“You okay?” Scott asks him, patting him on the leg.

“Oh, now you notice me!” Stiles drags his hands across his face, bored to the bone. “Man, at least make some small talk during the game, will you? I feel like I’m the third wheel between you and all those tall-as-fuck players.”

Scott flinches. “I didn’t know you hated basketball that much, bro, I mean, you weren’t particularly excited, but— _yes!_ That’s what I’m talking about!” The crowd and Scott erupt in cheering when one of the Laker players jumps and slams the ball downward through the basket. “Did you see that slam dunk? Man, now I can die in peace.”

Apparently, Stiles can’t hold a conversation with him; not when the court and the loud howling are absorbing him.

He always loses his best friend during the NBA season.

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles groans, regretting his choice of friendships. At least Isaac shares his gusto for lacrosse, though Stiles suspects he only indulges him, you know, because he’s Isaac and he’s extremely polite.

Like an answer to his prayers, his phone buzzes.

**How’s the torture going?**

**awful**  
I think I should break up with Scott  
 **hbu??**

**I’m about to stab Jackson in the eye.**  
 **He hasn't stopped drinking and now he’s acting like a wild monkey.  
** **What’s so great about this game? I don’t understand.**

Stiles grins as he types his response to Lydia.

**same**  
at least there’s a fucking stud at my immediate 3 o’clock  
 **I win**

**You’d win if you were actually fucking that stud.**

**ha ha fuck u**  
 **he’s so hot though u should see him  
** **exactly my type**

“Is Lydia also tired of the game?” Scott enquires, returning his eyes to the court in the blink of an eye. “I heard Jackson was gonna watch it with a few friends at his place.”

“Yeah, apparently he’s drunk and Lydia’s murdering instincts have arisen,” Stiles replies, opening the new text.

**Older and straight?**

**fuck u again**  
 **bulky, well-trimmed beard  
** **my aesthetic**

**And yet none of your boyfriends have fulfilled your aesthetic requirements.**

**don't remind me**  
 **saw ethan a while ago**  
 **he’s with danny now**  
 **honestly his eyes were about to pull out a pair of guns and shoot me to death**  
 **he never liked scott**  
 **ugh I remember when he thought we were dating**  
 **gross**  
 **I mean not gross because of scott I mean gross beacause it’d be weird**  
 **he’s like my brother**  
 **guess ethan never understood that  
** **ok u know what this is starting to feel like an one-sided conversation**

Somewhere between Stiles’ ramble, the crowd started cheering, but Stiles paid no attention. An incoming text manages to keep his head down.

**Does your aesthetic own a leather jacket and a magnificent pair of eyebrows?**

**what r u? a witch?**

**No  
** **Stiles, look up**

Stiles’ poor knowledge of the basketball environment made him believe that the sole purpose of the panels beneath the score screen was mainly to screen ads and music videos.

He was _so_ wrong.

Right now, his face is up there, framed in red hearts and the words Kiss Cam written over a pair of kissing lips. Next to him, though, there’s—

Oh, Neptune.

The crowd’s cheering becomes howling, which is unbearable. What’s he supposed to do? Nobody told him about this! He’s going to kill Scott.

And Scott, by the way, is laughing his ass off.

“Dude, the Kiss Cam got you! You have to kiss him.”

_No way_. “What?”

Someone taps on his shoulder. It’s The Guy: handsome, evidently older (but not too older, Stiles fathoms), shooting him a heartwarming smile. He looks like he’s having a blast.

Guess what? Stiles is not.

“You cool with it?” The Guy asks, the grin never leaving his ridiculous face. Next to him, the girl is clapping and whistling with _so much_ enthusiasm; Stiles doesn’t understand what’s going on.

When The Guy raises his eyebrows at him, impatient, Stiles shrugs, faking nonchalance. “It’s fine. Are you? Cool with it, I mean?”

The Guy nods, leaning forward. Just to be clear, Stiles is now screaming internally as he’s about to be kissed by the hottest of the Greek gods in front of a full house; Ethan’s most surely watching it, too. And Lydia, oh God.

And his dad with the entire police station.

“They’re waiting for us,” The Guy says, inches away from Stiles’ face. “It’s gonna be over real quick, don’t worry.”

Stiles is worried it won’t last enough. “Fine.”

Their lips meet so softly it makes Stiles burn all over, but what startles him the most isn’t the crowd screaming its lungs out; it’s The Guy’s hand cradling his neck tenderly, just like his date did to him earlier. The kiss doesn’t change or evolve from the innocent smooching—there’s no tongue, obviously. Sadly. The Guy maintains the kiss very PG rated, though the thumb stroking lazy patterns over Stiles’ jaw is making Stiles shift on his seat.

He tries his best not to whine. He thinks he succeeds.

But just like The Guy promised, it’s all over too soon, too quickly.

They break apart, the crowd cheers and claps, Scott pats him on the shoulder and that’s it. The man returns his attention to the game and to the girl and it’s as if Stiles never existed.

Which sucks, but hey, his aesthetic usually include the adjective ‘straight’, if not ‘married’ or ‘still-so-deep-into-the-closet-he-actually-lives-in-Narnia’.

Stiles huffs and types a quick text to Lydia.

**I’m ruined  
** **he ruined me**

**I’m going to start watching more gay porn.**

**jesus**

**Jackson is very impressed.  
** **Ask the girl for the video, if you will.**

**she filmed it???????**

**I think *everyone* filmed it, silly.  
** **Never mind. Boyd got it on his phone.**

**delete it!!!!!!!!**

**I’ll send it to you later.**

Stiles doesn’t text her a _thank you_ because he has some dignity and he’d like to keep it, so he shoves his phone into his hoodie pocket and slumps into his seat, cursing basketball, Scott, and hot, straight dudes. Stiles’ hot dude is all over the brunette, by the way, kissing her and whispering things so close to her ear they’re practically glued together.

Worst day ever.

He stands up. “Going to the bathroom, buddy. Won’t be long.”

“Yeah, fine,” Scott babbles, watching the game intently. “Bring one large soda on your way back, all right?”

“You suck.”

Stiles walks past him and manages to get to the bathroom unharmed, which is an accomplishment. He gets startled once or twice as the crowd cheers and claps but nobody gets hurt, and soon enough he’s finding shelter in the semi quiet bathroom, thankfully empty; he shuts the door behind him and leans against it, taking a deep, long breath.

He’s never returning to a basketball game, no matter how strong Scott’s puppy eyes game is.

Did Wells go out Friday nights to watch people bounce a ball around and jump like morons? Did Heinlein become one of the greatest Sci-Fi writers spending his time on basketball games? He should be working on that short story for his Creative Writing class, not in the goddamn Staples Center.

After he’s done with his number one business, Stiles washes his hands and splashes some water on his face, just to clear his mind a little.

But then—

“Oh, hey.”

The Guy.

Stiles closes the tap in a hurry and turns around, using his jeans to dry his hands. “Hey,” he blurts out. He notices a yellow-ish stain on the man’s green shirt. “What happened to you?”

“Oh, some douche threw his hotdog at me,” he says, watching himself on the mirror in front of them. “I have to rinse it—it’s one of my favorites.”

It really brings out his hotness, okay, but so do the leather jacket and his damn stupid face.

“It’s cool,” Stiles adds.

The man shoots him one of those smiles and focuses again on the nasty stain on his shirt. After an exasperated sight, he takes off his jacket with a swift movement. “You didn’t get in trouble, right? For what we did?”

Stiles just _stands_ there.

“Hold this for me, will you?” the man says, handing Stiles the piece of clothing and returning to the sink. “I mean I really hate the Kiss Cam—it’s so embarrassing…”

What the man says after the word ‘embarrassing’ is completely lost to Stiles; the perfect stranger takes his shirt off with the same graceful manners he used whit his jacket, and is now semi naked in front of Stiles, talking probably nonsense as he opens the tap to get rid of the mustard stain.

Although Stiles has always visualized himself beneath a huge, muscular guy, gladly taking the roughest pounds of his entire life, he’s never had the opportunity to actually be manhandled the way he’d like it. This man, however, looks capable of fulfilling Stiles’ fantasies and more: his torso and arms are all but tight muscles, a slim waist just like Chris Evan’s and a marvelous bubble butt.

He’s gawking at the dude, Jesus, what is he? Fourteen?

Stiles realizes he’s being stared at, expectantly. “Sorry, what? I zoned out.”

The guy smiles briefly, before returning his attention to the stained shirt. “I was just asking you if you got in trouble for kissing me.”

He got a half-boner, so…

“No, not at all.” Stiles shrugs, kicking an imaginary stone on the floor. “I just got teased a lot.”

“Yeah, I figured; your boyfriend looked pretty cool about it.”

It takes Stiles five seconds to understand what the man was saying. It should’ve been less, though—people often confuse their relationship and assume they’re a couple, which they’ve tried once or twice in their younger years, with no success.

Scott’s too fond of Allison’s boobs.

“Oh, no, my god—we’re not like _that_ ,” Stiles babbles. “He’s practically my brother.”

The man stops rubbing the shirt and looks at him through the mirror. “My mistake, then. I just assumed… you obviously don’t enjoy basketball and yet here you are.” He closes the tap and rinses the fabric, making his muscles flex. Stiles definitely does not stare, but he squeezes the leather jacket a bit stronger. “Thought you were here for boyfriend’s obligations.”

“More like best bro obligations,” Stiles mutters, leaning against the bathroom door. “It’s his birthday. I had to get him tickets to beat his girlfriend’s present.”

He chuckles, putting his shirt back on. Shame. “Been there.”

“Yours seemed pretty cool about it,” Stiles blurts out, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Your girlfriend. Overly excited, even.”

Fixing his hair in front of the mirror, the guy nods with a sigh. “She’s into that sort of thing, I guess. Didn’t say much about it, though, she just kept pressing the replay button. Did I tell you she filmed it?”

Stiles grunts. “My friends filmed it, too. I could bet my dad did, as well.”

“Parents,” the man says, playfully. He retrieves his jacket from Stiles’ tight grip and throws it over his shoulder. “We should go back; the game’s almost over.”

Yeah, Stiles is staying put to hyperventilate for a while. “Go ahead, I still need to make some phone calls… to my dad and stuff, you know. I might convince him to ban that video _nationwide_.”

“Good luck with that,” he says, opening the door.

Stiles figures this is his only chance, because when he returns to his seat, the man will definitely not pay him any sort of attention: the Lakers are winning and his girlfriend is stunning, so chances are Stiles will spend the rest of the night talking to Lydia, playing The Sims on his phone or feigning interest in the game.

He just goes for it. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”

The man turns and nods, still grinning like the sunshine he is. “Derek,” he chants, before sauntering off the bathroom.

Stiles’ eyes watch him disappear until there’s nothing left to stare at.

*

Stiles is typing a text to his dad ( **no dad he’s not my boyfriend ok I don’t have a boyfriend** ) when it hits him.

He didn’t tell Derek he _is_ gay.

Usually, after clarifying he’s not Scott’s boyfriend, he’d add ‘not that I’m not gay, because I am, but we’re not like that’ just to make sure people know (or at least to make sure hot guys know), but he totally forgot with Derek.

Not that it matters, because right now he’s shoving his tongue down that girl’s throat, so it’s whatever.

*

The video Boyd managed to film turns out to be pure crap; apparently, he, like Jackson, had way too much to drink, so his pulse was wobbly and pretty much unstable. He didn’t get the frame right, and though the kiss is somewhat visible, there it is.

Lydia is true to her word and sends him the damn thing, after sharing it on Facebook and Instagram, of course, including the hashtags #kisscam #lakers #gay, among others.

His dad texts him and tells him Parrish got a better one.

*

Two months and a half later, Scott is on his knees, begging.

“You have to come with, bro, it’s an emergency,” he practically whines, seizing Stiles’ leg as he crawls on the floor. “Allison’s dad is coming! He’s a fan of the Clippers, and they play next Saturday…”

Stiles groans. “Oh, man, another basketball game?”

“It’s the last one, I promise.” Scott looks at him with a new level of puppy eyes (seriously, he overdoes himself) and the adorable pout he uses on Allison. “I’ll buy you dinner for a week, books, sex toys, you name it.”

He’s not going to say no to dinner and books. His sex toy collection is pretty decent, as well as private, so Stiles won’t have Scott poking his nose around The Private Drawer.

Still, basketball… “Isn’t Allison coming with you?”

Scott scrunches his nose. “She’s a Clippers fan, too. I’ll be doomed to eternal solitude if I go without you.”

“Not so kindly reminder that I’ve been there, Scott McCall.” Stiles knows he’s got papers to write, and his final project needs some adjustments. Also, his dad is supposed to come visit this weekend; the arrival date is still ‘a surprise’.

“And I’m seriously embarrassed and ashamed of myself for doing that to you,” Scott implores as he gets on his feet. “But dude, I need my best friend right beside me.”

He’s using the sensitive cards; Stiles is weak against them.

After a six-second thought, Stiles agrees with a sigh. “Fine, but you’re definitely buying me dinner and that Sci-Fi collection I’ve always wanted.”

Scott gives him one of his best bear hugs.

*

The game hasn’t started yet; the spectators are taking their respective seats as the minutes pass, and Stiles finds himself slumped against his own seat, trying not to look so murderous like he really feels. Scott, the traitor, is kissing Chris Argent’s ass, laughing at his lame dad jokes and talking about basketball in general.

Stiles is going to kill him.

Suddenly, none other than Danny Mahealani occupies the seat next to him. “Never in my life did I imagine finding you here,” he greets, formally and with a polite smile. They aren’t great friends, after all. The only things they have in common are their birthplace and their appreciation for dicks. And Ethan, of course. “Thought you hated basketball.”

“I still do,” Stiles reassures. “Scott dragged me here.”

Danny chuckles, taking his jacket off. “It’s happened to me; I’m not exactly a Lakers’ fan but last time they played I had to come.”

“Oh, Ethan, right?” Stiles shifts uncomfortably on his seat; Danny nods, looking around. “Is he coming?”

“No.”

Stiles doesn’t want to ask that annoying, inappropriate question, but he does anyways. “You came alone?”

“No.” Danny seems to be miserable, so Stiles remains silent. However, Danny clarifies: “A friend’s supposed to meet me here.”

“That’s cool. Someone I know?”

“Hey, Danny.” A new, rich and raspy voice startles both of them.

Did Stiles tell you it’s also a familiar voice?

Derek The Smoking Hot and Cutest Guy Alive takes a seat next to Danny and fails to realize Stiles’ is there, too. Just for a couple of seconds, though; when Derek and Danny break apart from their bro hug, Derek’s eyes land on Stiles, and oh-oh, he had forgotten how wonderful they are, just like his entire face and body but you get the idea.

Speaking of Derek’s eyes, they widen as soon as he spots Stiles.

“You!” Derek exclaims, untangling himself from Danny’s arms.

Stiles does a little wave. “Me!” he mimics, feeling lame and sort of exposed. He still has his balls on his throat from the shock. “Hey.”

“What are you even doing here?” Derek demands, smiling widely. “I clearly recall you hated basketball.”

“Best bro obligations,” Stiles shrugs, shooting a menacing glare at Scott, who continues to laugh at Chris’ jokes.

“Again?”

“What can you do?” He does a nonchalant gesture, diminishing its importance. Deep down, though, he still wants to murder his best friend. Trying not to melt under Derek’s pretty, shining eyes and dazzling smile, Stiles goes on. “So, where’s that boy-on-boy enthusiast girlfriend of yours?”

Derek seems genuinely confused before clearing his throat. “Couldn’t make it.”

Danny looks at them with a frown on his face. “Wait, you know each other?”

At this, Stiles coughs. “Barely.”

“We met once,” Derek teases, turning his smile into an honest-to-god wolfish grin. “A while ago.”

This is when Danny’s mouth drops to the floor. “I remember!” he exclaims, clearly amused. Stiles hides his face in his hands, making a strangled sound. “The Kiss Cam got you, right? Lakers’ game?”

Stiles grits his teeth. “Don’t remind me; Lydia keeps shoving it up my ass.”

Danny looks surprised. “ _Martin_? How did that happen?”

“I was in love with her, then I wasn’t.” Stiles learned that idolizing a girl for too long wasn’t healthy, and Lydia stopped acting like a pampered daddy princess; after that, they became best friends. “Our current relationship is a friendly ‘I can’t live without you but sometimes I want to murder you in your sleep’. We’re best friends.”

“Didn’t see that coming,” Danny acknowledges, eyebrows on top of his hair line. “Man, I remember you being head over heels for her.”

There’s a general whistle when the players take their positions on court, so Stiles has to talk louder to be heard. He screams: “You and everyone else,” before turning to Scott and sharing an exasperated groan.

*

To his surprise, Danny turns out to be very talkative during the game. Derek doesn’t say a word, not to Danny, much less to Stiles. He merely stares at the game like it’s some sort of punishment, and doesn’t bother on cheering when the Clippers score—Stiles suspects he’s there against his will. Still, the Derek he knew a couple of months ago wasn’t anything like this Derek, suddenly sour and taciturn. Half an hour ago, he was all smiles and teasing, but now…

“Yo, Danny,” Stiles asks with a nudge in Danny’s arm. He tries to keep his voice as low as possible, but the cheering is unbearable. “What’s your friend’s problem?”

Danny leans a little to the side. “Derek’s? I don’t know, why?”

“I don’t know. I remember him being… _perkier_.”

“Well, he’s charming when he wants to. Or, when he wants something.” Danny shoots him a curious onceover. “Why? Did he tell you something?”

Stiles rewinds his brain trying to figure out whether he did something to offend him or whatever, but the last thing he told Derek was the word ‘barely’ and, to Stiles, that’s a very innocuous word. Not harmful at all. Well, at least not in their context.

“No, but he was definitely not this grumpy when I first met him.”

Danny lets out a chuckle. “He isn’t grumpy, he’s just quiet.”

At this point, Stiles isn’t sure they’re talking about the same Derek.

“I definitely don’t remember him as a quiet person,” Stiles insists. He drops the subject, sinking back on his seat. He also ignores Danny’s strange looks and takes his phone out.

**just ran into Derek  
** **I’m freaking out**

**Derek? As in your unhealthy, definitely straight obsession, Derek?**

**that was low but yeah**  
 **he came with danny  
** **they’re sat next to me**

Stiles feels brave enough to glance up at Derek, whose face is dead serious and bored. Danny might have just come alone.

Lydia texts him back a few seconds later.

**Have you talked to him?**

**not that much I mean danny is between us  
** **also he’s not being very jovial right now**

**He seemed extremely jovial to me when he put his tongue into your mouth**

Now, that’s crap; they didn’t French kissed, all right?

Stiles doesn’t reply.

When the second quarter ends, Scott excuses himself and leaves for the bathroom. He also greeted Danny with a polite nod when Stiles slapped him on the shoulder; Allison, however, takes Scott’s empty seat and starts talking as if they were the greatest friends.

Probably because they were such huge nerds back in high school… Stiles was good but not Danny/Allison/Lydia good.

“So how’s Ethan?” Allison inquires. “Haven’t seen him in a while.” They go to the same university; share some classes, even.

At this, Danny shifts and looks away. “Me neither.”

Stiles and Allison exchange an awkward look.

And because she’s the sweetest girl on Earth (no, literally, you can’t get mad at her; she’ll shoot you one of her blinding smiles and you’re gone), she’s the one that says, “Oh, I’m sorry. You were such a cute couple.”

Danny grimaces, but his expression remains calmed. “Yeah, I guess. He was just very jealous. Couldn’t be with my friends without him making a scene.”

Stiles lets out an agreeing hum. “Been there, done that, my friend. Hooking up with Ethan? Zero percent recommend.”

“You could’ve warned me, at least,” Danny laments, though he’s smiling, which is always good because Danny has some killer dimples.

“You dated Ethan?”

The three of them turn to face a very confused Derek, whose eyes have apparently no other interest than Stiles’ face. His cheeks feel hot all of a sudden.

But he’s not going to say no to a Derek-Stiles interaction, no matter how insignificant it might be.

“Yeah, like a year ago,” he replies, trying to sound cool about it. He is, by the way; it’s just that Danny and Allison are looking at them, very intently, and Stiles gets all flustered whenever Derek stares directly at him. “But only for like, what? Two, three months?”

“So you’re gay,” he deadpans.

It’s not a question, though.

But Stiles is _not_ explaining his volatile sexuality in the middle of a basketball game. He says, “I have my preferences,” and focuses on Scott, who’s returning to his seat and giving Allison a small, innocent peck.

When he ventures another glance at Derek, the guy is absorbed in his phone.

*

Stiles looks up when he hears Scott muttering “No way” under his breath.

It’s the goddamn Kiss Cam again, framing his own face and Danny’s.

He tries to ignore the fact that everyone is laughing, and by everyone Stiles means Chris Argent, who never laughs except when he’s talking to his daughter. Danny, sat next to him, makes a low, strangled, pained sound, seeming utterly miserable. Stiles doesn’t feel offended, though—his relationship with Mahealani isn’t that great, to be honest; they didn’t hate each other but they weren’t exactly the closest friends. Danny was always in advanced classes and out there in the field playing lacrosse; Stiles was a B+ and A- student who spent the lacrosse practices and games sat on the bench.

They kissed each other out of a dare, but after that, nada.

His mental rambling gets interrupted when Scott barks a laugh extremely close to his ear. “The camera dude has a fixation on you, bro.”

“Tell me about it.” Stiles grits his teeth. His neck is dying to turn around and find out what is Derek doing, but he stays put. “What’s his problem? What did I ever do to him?”

Danny looks mortified but determined. “Let’s get this over with, Stilinski.”

“You sure?” Stiles stammers, looking around in desperation. He’s also mildly surprised Danny is agreeing to do this. “I mean, we don’t have to… I could kiss your cheek, or—“

“I want to, come on,” Danny urges, leaning forward. “Just in case Ethan’s watching the game.”

That vicious son of a bitch.

But then he thinks about what Ethan’s face would look like if two of his exes kissed, and that does the trick.

He’s halfway to Danny when someone else grabs Stiles by the lapels of his jacket and slams their mouths together.

It’s too much information to process; first of all, there’s shock—you can’t pounce a guy like that, all right? You gotta at least give him a heads up. Secondly, when Stiles finally realizes that Derek is said someone, he freaks out so much his hands flail as if he were drowning (he stops breathing, by the way… for like, ten seconds). Also, the beard burns like hell (but he’s not complaining—he’s never had the chance to make out with a well-trimmed bearded guy, or bearded at all), and then, there’s the tongue.

There’s no trace of their first sweet, chaste kiss they shared a couple of months ago. Derek is kissing him with so much force, bruising their lips, clanking their teeth; urging Stiles’ mouth open with his tongue, diving in once, twice, three times, before breaking apart. The whole crowd is on its feet, applauding and cheering, but Stiles can only hear and feel Derek’s breathing, unsteady and warm.

Something keeps Stiles’ eyes closed. Maybe, if he opens them, Derek will be gone. He swallows, his nerves a wreck, and whispers, “W-What the…?”

Derek shushes him with another scorching (though brief) kiss that has Stiles chasing it down when Derek steps back, returning to his seat.

The bastard sits there motionless, and Stiles is about to pass out when he licks his lips and the taste is still there.

Something climbs up to his brain, and he remembers that the last time Stiles saw Derek, he had a girlfriend under his arm. And it pisses him off.

Danny shoots him an inquisitive look. “Hey, man, do you wanna—I don’t know, switch places, maybe? So you guys can talk?”

Stiles snorts. “No.”

“Okay then,” Danny grants, and keeps his eyes on the court, paying close attention to the game.

That’s when Scott pulls him by the arm, clearly shocked and confused as hell. Luckily, the two Argents are no longer laughing; they’re both crouched together, following every move the players make. Scott’s the one panicking, probably because he remembers Derek from the last time they came to the Staples Center. “Dude, what the fuck?”

Stiles lets out a very annoyed groan. “I don’t know, man, he fucking French kissed me. Like, no buildup, dude, just straight to business.” He fakes a displeased grunt. “Also, last time I saw the guy, he had a girlfriend. A very hot girlfriend.”

“Maybe they broke up,” Scott suggests.

“Nah, don’t know, don’t think so. When I asked him about her, he said she couldn’t make it. Never mentioned breaking up with her. Besides,” Stiles replays their talk on the bathroom in his brain. He wrinkles his nose. “He didn’t even try to hit on me. Thought you and I were, like… _together_.”

Scott’s eyebrows furrow. “Bro.”

“Right?”

“But why?” Scott insists. “He didn’t even go there, you were supposed to kiss Danny!”

If Stiles weren’t so mad and horny right now, he’d probably make fun of Scott quoting Mean Girls.

“Beats me,” Stiles mumbles, eyes darting across the court. “I swear his tongue reached my tonsils.”

With a full-body shiver, Scott grimaces. “Ugh, I bet it was gross.”

It wasn’t.

*

**WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?**  
 **STILES**  
 **ANSWER ME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD**  
 **His smile when he sat down was the icing on the cake.**  
 **Do yourself a favor and keep him.  
** **Marry him.**

**So when am I going to meet this not-boyfriend of yours?**  
 **Arriving tomorrow. Staying at Aunt Edna’s.  
** **Bring him over for lunch.**

Stiles doesn’t text them back.

*

He brushes past Derek when they leave the Staples.

At first, Derek doesn’t say a word. There are too many people and too much noise to even try to communicate; Stiles and Scott follow Chris and Allison, with Danny and Derek behind. Their cars are parked reasonably near each other, and while Allison hugs his dad goodbye, Scott and Stiles argue where will they go next.

“You promised me dinner,” Stiles reminds his friend, “and I want beer and pizza. Right now.”

“Fine,” Scott agrees, checking his wallet. “Can Allison come?”

Stiles snorts. “Of course she can, why the hell wouldn’t she—“ He stops his sentence midair as he spots Derek walking towards them. _Remember, you’re angry with him; you’re pissed off at him. But why, exactly? Because he’s a good kisser and you want him to pound your ass?_ Stiles isn’t going to admit that. He lets out a quivering sigh when Derek stops in front of him. “What do you want?”

Derek eyes him carefully, darting to Scott once before asking, “Can we talk? Alone?”

“I’m just gonna- say goodbye to Allison’s dad,” Scott stammers before waving at them, stiff like a statue. “See you.”

“Traitor!” Stiles barks when his friend practically runs to meet Chris. The four of them (Danny included!!) stare at him and Derek, joining their heads together and whispering, like fourteen-year-olds.

Stiles hears a tired sigh and turns to meet Derek’s expectant stare. “What,” he grunts. “I gotta meet my friends for dinner.”

“You’re mad at me,” Derek states, no trace of that cocky, wolfish grin he had offered Stiles earlier. He’s looking at him wide-eyed, almost under his lashes, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with _this_ Derek, so he snorts. Again. “No, I don’t even know you. We’re not- I don’t care. Look,” Stiles utters, trying to stop his babbling. “The thing you did back there, it wasn’t cool, man.”

Derek’s eyebrows raise just a tad. “Oh?”

“Did your girlfriend ask you to do it? Does she like boys kissing boys that much?”

To his surprise, Derek laughs. “You’re delusional, you know that? You’re lucky you’re fucking hot, too.”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, and does his best to raise a judgmental eyebrow. Deep down, however, his body is _collapsing_. “So?” he asks.

“So what?” Derek shoots back, mirroring Stiles’ posture.

“Why did you do it?”

“Well, isn’t that obvious?” Derek mutters, unfolding his arms and taking a step forward. Stiles should have taken a step back, but he doesn’t. “I like you.”

_You’re mad at him._

Stiles forces himself to remember the brunette. “I’m not sure your girlfriend would like that.”

“What girlfriend?” His voice is so low and raw Stiles honest-to-God shivers. Derek’s fingertips caress feather light Stiles’ forearm. “You’re talking nonsense.”

Stiles seizes Derek’s wrist to prevent him from throwing himself at this man and kissing the shit out of him. “The girl you brought, the one that couldn’t make it today? Ring any bells?”

Realization drowns over Derek, but he just lets out a breathy laugh. “Jennifer? Dumped her centuries ago.”

It takes every single drop of Stiles’ willpower to stay calmed. “What? Then why—?”

“Why did I lie? Don’t know. I mean, I didn’t even remember her, so I just humored you. Figured it wouldn’t make much difference.” Derek runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. “I fucked it, I know,” he says when Stiles opens his mouth to retort. “Not only tonight, but the night from two months ago.”

Stiles remains quiet.

Derek manages to turn Stiles’ wrist grip into handholding. How did he manage to do such thing, Stiles doesn’t know. “Look, I made the wrong assumption back then,” Derek carries on, with a barely-there smile. “And I obviously asked all the wrong questions.”

“Obviously,” Stiles mumbles.

“But when I heard you dated Ethan, and then you—well,” Derek exhales slowly, tilting Stiles’ head up, “it gave me hope.”

How does Stiles deal with this information?

“You could’ve just asked.” He reaches a hand up, fixing Derek’s messy hair.

“I could have,” Derek agrees, pulling Stiles closer. “I would’ve dumped her right there, and kiss you properly.”

Stiles lets out a chuckle. “You might be hot as hell, Derek, dear, but I’m not that easy.”

For the first time since they met, Derek looks taken aback. “Oh, am I gonna have to court you? I can do that, you know?” He smiles maliciously. “I happen to know a guy who has two spare tickets to the Cards vs. Wildcats game; I could always take you there and wait for the Kiss Cam to get us.“

“Oh, shut up,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes, before grabbing Derek’s head and kissing him breathless.

*

**I got three texts from Scott, Allison and Danny with the same picture but from different angles.**  
 **You’re gonna marry him, aren’t you?**  
 **Please, marry him.  
** **Jackson says ‘nicely done Stilinski’, btw.**

“You took pictures?” Stiles whines, moving his plate away. “Guys!”

Derek laughs and turns to Danny. “Let me see them.”

“You’re the worst.” He throws a fry at Derek. “You’re lucky you’re handsome and I have a weakness for bearded men.”

Next to him, Scott leans forward to whisper in his ear, “Chris took a couple, too. Said he’d send them to your dad.”

Stiles feels the blood drain from his face. “He wouldn’t dare.”

Scott just shrugs, and in that precise moment, Stiles’ phone buzzes.

**You’re definitely bringing him for lunch.  
** **No excuses.**

Derek stops laughing when Stiles shows him the text.

**Author's Note:**

> I have zero knowledge of basketball, much less about the Staples Center (I'm from Mexico, ok) but I googled some stuff and this is the result. I seriously apologize if I get some things wrong.


End file.
